


Little Moments

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Family, Humor, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 11:36:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15218312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: Mark manages the children on his own while Bridget is traveling for work and endeavors to occupy them preparing a surprise for her return. Absolutely nothing could possibly go wrong here. A/U, with column, book, and film universe references respectively. As always, typos and formatting errors are mine; please feel free to point them out.





	Little Moments

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work and one scene in particular were inspired by the song "Little Moments" by Brad Paisley. When I first heard the lyrics, they reminded me so vividly of Bridget. I also wanted Billy and Mabel to be young enough in this scenario to still allow for adorable mayhem, so in my mind, this is all taking place in around 2012, when they would have been about 7 and 5 respectively. A/U, obviously, since according to the MATB timeline, this would have been after Mark's death.

> Well, it's just like last year on my birthday.  
>  She lost all track of time and burnt the cake  
>  and every smoke detector in the house was goin' off  
>  and she was just about to cry until I took her in my arms  
>  and I tried not to let her see me laugh.  
>  Yeah, I live for little moments like that.  
>  I know she's not perfect, but she tries so hard for me  
>  and I thank God that she isn't, 'cause how boring would that be.  
>  It's the little imperfections, it's the sudden change in plans  
>  when she misreads the directions, and we're lost but holding hands.- Brad Paisley, "Little Moments" 

“Mark?” Bridget’s whisper penetrated the midnight stillness so that Mark, who was just hovering on the edge of sleep, stirred and turned to face his wife. 

“Sorry. Did I wake you?” 

“Not quite,” he answered. “What’s the matter? Are the children all right?” 

“Fine. Sound asleep.” 

“Are you all right?” 

“I suppose so. I was just thinking.” 

“About tomorrow?” Bridget nodded. “I’m so proud of you,” said Mark, pulling her into a hug, “and I have every confidence in you.” 

“I’m not sure. Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to go. Mabel’s just got over being sick.” 

“Bridget, you need to do this. You’ve worked hard for it; you’ve earned it.” 

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not such a big deal. There will be other opportunities.” 

“Sweetheart, I know my knowledge of popular culture isn’t as far-reaching as yours, but I think I can say with total confidence that covering the Academy Awards is a very big deal.” 

“You’re right. I just hate leaving you.” 

For answer, Mark touched his lips to hers. “We’ll be fine. This is a tremendous career opportunity, and it’s only fair. You manage with the children on your own all the time. Besides, you and Sharon are always going on about men needing to socially evolve so women can continue to go out and be top postmodern feminists. Give us a chance.” 

“And that’s another thing,” said Bridget. “I feel a bit guilty for staying on in California for a few days to visit Shaz. I know we haven’t seen each other since she got married, but it feels so, I don’t know, carefree and nonmaternal and--” 

“And you deserve it,” Mark concluded. “You work hard. You have a demanding career and an equally demanding family, and you have no reason to feel guilty about taking time for yourself; I wish you’d take more of it, frankly.” 

Bridget bit her lip. “Well, you’re right, I guess, but are you sure you’ll be able to cope?” 

“We’ll be fine, love. I promise. It will give me an opportunity to spend more time with the children, and I think I can manage to work from home a bit as well.” 

Bridget smiled. “I admire your self-directed work ethic. I never seem able to get anything done at home. There are too many distractions, especially with the children.” 

“I still say we can remedy that situation if you’d set up a little home office for yourself; it’s not as if we haven’t got plenty of space, so you needn’t concern yourself with taking out a second mortgage or hiring convicts to punch holes in walls.” 

Bridget giggled. “That’s true, but I don’t know; home and office don’t work well together in the same sentence.” 

“Well, we could christen it your sanctuary of inner poise, then,” Mark suggested. 

“I don’t know. It’s not really my style. I need freedom and an open space for my creativity to flow.” 

“A bit of discipline and structure wouldn’t go amiss either, I think,” he said, kissing the end of her nose. 

“I suppose it might be useful to designate a space just for concentrating work energy,” Bridget used. “Okay, I’ll think about it.” Sighing, she rested her head against Mark’s shoulder. “I really do wish you were coming with me to California.” 

“So do I, but you’re going to be wonderful.” 

“how can you be so sure?” 

“Well,” said Mark, resting his chin on the top of her head, “for one thing, there won’t be any fireman poles on the Red Carpet.” 

Bridget winced. “Oh God.” 

“Or horses,” he added. 

“If you’re trying to help, try harder,” Bridget grumbled. 

Mark cupped her cheek in his hand. “Sh, listen to me. You’re going to be brilliant. You’d never have been given this assignment if you weren’t fully capable. Everyone believes in you; now you’ve just got to believe in yourself.” 

Finally, Bridget smiled. “Thanks, sweetie,” she whispered, kissing him. 

“Just promise me you’ll come back. I don’t want to hear you’ve gone and run off with that other Mr Darcy you fancy.” 

“There’s no chance of that happening,” said Bridget, “but if you’re so worried about it, why don’t you come with me?” 

“it’s tempting, but I’d best stay here and maintain law and order until you return.” 

“right, because law and order perfectly describes the general state of this family.” 

Mark pulled her closer. “I’m going to miss you,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her ear. 

“Yeah, you are. You have no idea how much.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean, precisely?” 

Bridget kissed his cheek. “You’ll see.” 

* * *

“Dad,” said Billy, perched at the kitchen island and glancing up from the homework in front of him, “do you know how many rings Saturn has? I’m supposed to draw them here, but I think there are too many.” 

Mark paused in the midst of rummaging the cupboards and went to peer over his son’s shoulder at the homework sheet on the solar system he was endeavoring to complete. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, “but I don’t think it matters, really. It’s just a representation.” 

Billy bit his lip, thinking. “What’s a representation?” 

“It’s a smaller or simpler model of something when you can’t use the real thing,” Mark explained, “to give an idea of what it might look like. You have model trains and model airplanes; you’re drawing a model of the solar system here. It probably doesn’t matter if you don’t draw all of Saturn’s rings, because this is just a picture of the planets on a smaller scale.” 

Billy continued to stare down at his homework, drumming his heels against the legs of his chair as he considered. “But what if it’s wrong?” he wondered, tapping the end of his pencil against his chin. Mark smiled; that Billy had inherited his father’s precise way of viewing the world was proving at once blessing and burden. 

“Just give it your best effort, and if it’s not quite right, you’ll have learned something.” 

Billy shrugged; then resumed his drawing. Mabel wandered into the kitchen, her favorite doll, Saliva, tucked beneath her arm. Toddling up to her brother, she too peered over his shoulder at his homework. 

“You did de picture of Mars wong,” she declared. 

Billy frowned down at the paper. “no, I didn’t.” 

“You did,” Mabel insisted. “You have to dwaw yourself on de planet, because Mummy and Auntie Jude say dat men come fwom Mars.” 

“I do not come from mars!” Billy exclaimed indignantly. “Dad, tell her it’s not true.” 

“Mabel,” Mark said gently, “Mummy doesn’t mean that; she’s only teasing.” 

Mabel looked up at her father, eyes wide and thoughtful. “She sounds mad when she says it. Is it just something she says when you’re in twouble?” 

“Basically, yes.” 

“But you don’t come fwom a different planet, do you?” she asked. 

“No, and neither does your brother.” 

“So den why does Mummy say dat all de time?” 

Mark bent and kissed the top of her head. “Ask your mother someday, when you’re older. She’ll tell you everything.” 

Over dinner, Billy continued to edify his father and sister on what he’d learned about the solar system. “See, all the planets go round the sun. The planets that are closer to the sun are warmer, and the ones farther away from the sun are colder.” 

“How cold?” asked Mabel, twirling pasta on her fork. 

“Really cold. Colder than the North Pole. That’s why it would be impossible for humans to live on most other planets, because they’re either too close to the sun, so we’d burn up, or they’re too far from the sun, so we’d freeze.” 

“You know, Billy,” Mark observed, “you seem very interested in the solar system. Are you considering becoming an astronaut some day?” 

Billy shook his head. “No,” he answered. “I’ve already decided what I want to do for a job.” 

“Really? That’s quite impressive. I admire your forward thinking. So, can you share, or is this top secret?” 

“I’m going to be a fire-fighter,” Billy declared. 

“That’s a very important and very brave job. You’ll have to put yourself in danger for other people every day.” 

Billy nodded. “It’s sort of like being a superhero, but that’s not the only reason I want to do it. It’s so in case Mum ever sets the kitchen on fire again, I’ll be able to come right over and save her.” Only Billy’s sincere devotion to his mother kept Mark from laughing. 

“That’s very brave of you,” he said, “but why don’t we keep that between us, all right? She doesn’t like being teased about it.” 

“Daddy,” piped up Mabel, “did mummy weally almost burn down de house with your birthday cake?” 

“Not quite,” Mark assured her. 

“Is dat why you call her a twouble magnet?” 

“Mabel, you shouldn’t repeat that.” 

“But you say it all de time,” she protested. 

“Yes, but you shouldn’t always repeat everything you hear adults say.” 

Mabel frowned. “Well, if it’s not wight to call mummy a twouble magnet, maybe you shouldn’t call her dat.” 

This time, Mark did laugh. “You’re right, sweetheart. I shouldn’t. From now on, I’ll try to remember that.” Still, the memory of the mishap made his lips twitch with amusement. 

* * *

## One Year Earlier

Accepting Daniel’s offer to take the children for the night so Mark and Bridget could have a quiet, child-free evening to celebrate his birthday seemed sensible; of course, the children’s absence didn’t guarantee rest and relaxation. In Mark’s experience, Bridget’s hand generally lent a touch of the unexpected to whatever they did together, and not always by design. After removing his coat, he stood still for several moments, trying to pinpoint what felt out of place. 

“It’s the silence,” said Bridget, appearing at his side. “It’s great, isn’t it?” 

“It’s off-putting, actually,” Mark admitted. “No Sponge Bob; no blaring Xbox, no thundering up and down the stairs; I thought for a moment I’d inadvertently wandered into the wrong house.” 

“I know. I felt odd too. It wears off though, after about five minutes.” She raised herself on tiptoe to kiss him. “Welcome home, birthday boy.” 

Mark slipped an arm around her waist and bent to return the kiss. “I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he growled, dipping his head lower to brush his lips against the hollow of her throat. 

Bridget giggled. “Before dinner?” 

“It’s my birthday,” he replied. “The order of events is entirely up to me.” 

“Well,” Bridget relented, “I suppose I could arrange for some adult entertainment.” 

“I was counting on it.” Tugging on his wife’s hand, Mark led her to the sofa and pulled her down onto his lap. She must, he realized, as he bent to nuzzle her neck, have slipped into the shower after Daniel had collected the children; her skin smelled faintly of rose petals, and he sighed contentedly as he slid his hand beneath the silk blouse that just matched the color of her eyes. 

“I appreciate the effort,” he whispered against her ear, “but I think you’re far too overdressed for tonight’s entertainment.” 

“That’s easily dealt with,” Bridget replied, pulling her blouse over her head and wriggling out of her jeans. “Better?” 

“Considerably,” said Mark, cupping her breast and locking his mouth on hers again while she made quick work of unfastening the buttons of his shirt. 

As she tugged on his belt and scrabbled with the zip on his trousers, her fingers grazed his erection, and he moaned, catching her lower lip between his teeth. Shifting her weight so she straddled him, Bridget took hold of his shoulders, her eyes locked on his as her hips began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. Mark felt his brain disengage as the hypnotic rhythm of Bridget’s movements ensnared his senses. Reaching for her hands, which still gripped his shoulders, he grasped them in his own and linked his fingers through hers, his pulse beating in time with the steady piston of her hips. Anyone who claimed sex wasn’t everything, he thought, was clearly doing it wrong. True, the demands of family life sometimes made physical intimacy a challenge, but these moments, Mark believed, when their bodies fell into a common rhythm, kept their marriage in sync. Finally, he felt himself begin to unravel as he gave into his release. His hands, still linked with Bridget’s, dropped to his sides, and a sigh of pleasure rumbled deep in his chest. Eyes closed, he remained perfectly still, his body gently thrumming in the aftershock of arousal. Breathless, sweaty, and spent, Bridget let herself collapse against him, her head dropping onto his shoulder. Mark curled one arm beneath her, gently shifting her weight to cradle her in his lap. 

“Happy birthday, sweetie,” she whispered, tilting her head up to place a light kiss on his jaw. 

“Thank you, darling. That was certainly. . .” Mark paused, frowning. “Bridget, is something burning in the kitchen?” Bridget sat up, pushing her hair out of her face and wrinkling

her nose. Then her eyes widened, and she leapt from Mark’s lap with a terrified shriek.

“Shit! The cake!” Without bothering to dress, she shot off toward the kitchen, Mark hastening behind after slipping into his trousers. Hands shaking, cursing incoherently, Bridget shut off the oven and bent to open the door, immediately releasing a stream of smoke. The onslaught of noise, consisting of Bridget’s shrieks beneath the blaring smoke alarm, threatened to shatter Mark’s eardrums. 

“Don’t panic!” he shouted over the din, franticly flinging open windows while Bridget danced on the spot, trying unhelpfully to bat at the clouds of smoke with a tea-towel. After several interminable minutes of scrabbling and swearing, the alarm fell silent as the smoke began to dissipate, and Bridget, shivering with shock (and cold given that she was still entirely naked) flung her arms around Mark and pressed herself against his chest. 

“It’s all right,” he soothed, one hand at the small of her back. “Everything’s fine. We caught it in time. No lasting damage.” 

“Oh God, I’m so stupid,” she mumbled, her voice quavering. Lifting her head, her gaze fell on the charred remains of what had been a birthday cake. “I’m sorry I ruin everything.” 

Mark drew his arms more tightly around her and kissed the top of her head. . “You don’t, love.” 

“I can make it up to you,” she said. 

Mark brushed the edge of his thumb across her cheek. “Well, if it’s that important to you, I would like you to make me a promise.” 

“Which is?” 

He smiled, gazing lovingly down at her. “Don’t ever change.” 

* * *

“Daddy?” Mabel’s voice nudged Mark from his reverie. “Can we wead de Velveteen Wabbit book again tonight?” 

“Absolutely, princess, before bed. I promise, but actually, while we have some time, there’s something very important I need to talk to you both about.” 

Sensing a shift in his father’s tone, Billy set down his fork and glanced up at him. “Is something wrong, Dad?” 

“Nothing in the world, but I do need your help with something. You know Mother’s day is next Sunday, right?” They both nodded. “Well, I’ve had an idea of what we could do for your mum.” He went on to explain his plan to begin converting one of the spare rooms upstairs into a workspace for Bridget. “It will be like a present, to show her how proud we are of her for all the hard work she does.” 

“Like a supwise?” asked Mabel. 

“Exactly, a surprise—something we can do to show her when she comes home next weekend.” 

Billy nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “How can we help?” 

“Well, you know your mum; she likes everything to be light and colorful—a space where she can feel comfortable but also inspired.” 

Again, Billy nodded, brow furrowed as he considered. “So you want us to help decorate it?” 

“Precisely. I want this to be a special surprise from all of us, so I need your help. Do you think you can do that?” 

“I think so,” said Billy. 

“Good, and,” Mark cast a stern look at his daughter, “since this is a surprise, we know what that means, don’t we?” 

“It means we keep it a secwet?” Mabel replied. 

“Right. Can you do that?” 

“I tink so.” 

Mark smiled. “Good.” Then, glancing at his watch, he rose and began clearing the dishes. Immediately Mabel jumped down from her seat to help. 

“I’m going to need the pair of you to be very quiet,” said Mark, quickly rescuing a pile of teetering plates from Mabel’s hands. “I’m expecting a very important call from America.” 

“Is it the president?” asked Billy as he loaded the dishwasher. 

“No, it’s--” Mark’s words were interrupted as his phone began to ring. Holding up one finger to signal for silence, he answered the call. “Darcy.” 

“Yes,” said a clipped, female voice. “I have Secretary Clinton on the line.” 

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Then, “Mabel, please,” Mark whispered as Mabel began attempting to sing the alphabet backward. 

“Mr Darcy?” came another voice, “thank you so much for agreeing to speak with me.” 

Mark jabbed a finger at both children and nodded toward the kitchen door before responding. “Of course, Madam Secretary. I’m honored to be of assistance.” 

“Your reputation precedes you. I understand you’re a leading authority on international crisis resolution.” 

“Yes, that’s correct,” Mark replied, endeavoring to focus on the conversation while monitoring the domestic crisis currently unfolding in his kitchen. Billy, attempting to be helpful, had sought to distract his sister and lure her from the kitchen with a trail of chocolate buttons which, rather than coaxing Mabel into submission, were promptly being trodden underfoot. 

“Well, I was hoping to consult your expertise. I’d very much value your opinion on--” The remainder of Secretary Clinton’s words were drowned as Mabel, for reasons best known to herself, began shrieking in a manner that suggested she was being set on fire. 

“I’m happy to offer any advice I can, certainly, Mrs Clinton. If you’ll just give me a moment; I’m terribly sorry. The reception isn’t quite clear.” Then, lowering his voice, he hissed, “Would you both shut up, please?” Shooing Billy and Mabel from the room, Mark wondered how he could negotiate the rescue of political prisoners from imminent execution and yet lack the ability to keep his own children from attempting to murder each other. 

* * *

Hours later, when both children were finally in bed, Mark dropped wearily into an armchair in his study, glancing at his watch and wondering if he could manage to stay awake for another call. He leaned his head on his hand and closed his eyes just as the phone began to ring. Shaking himself awake, he cleared his throat and reached to answer it. 

“Hello, darling.” 

“Did I wake you?” Bridget sounded apologetic. 

“not really,” Mark answered, suppressing a yawn and sinking back into his chair with a smile. “How are things? Have you been rubbing elbows with the rich and famous?” 

Bridget laughed. “A bit. Sunday is when it gets interesting. I still can’t believe I’m actually doing this.” 

“You sound like you’re enjoying yourself,” Mark commented. “I’m glad.” 

“What about you?” asked Bridget. “How’s everything on your end?” 

“We’re surviving,” said Mark, “but we miss you.” 

“I miss you all too. What’s been going on? Are the children okay?” 

“They’re fine. You missed an interesting lecture on the solar system from our son the professor. I ought to have taken notes. Oh, and I successfully diffused a hostage situation.” 

“Are you serious? Oh my God. What happened?” 

“Don’t be alarmed. It was hardly an international crisis. Mabel thought she’d chase her brother around the house with a pair of scissors.” 

“Oh dear.” Bridget giggled. 

“Did I mention all of this was going on while I was on a call with the U.S secretary of state?” Mark added casually. 

“What? Mark, seriously? You talked to Hilary Clinton?” 

“If you call trying to calmly advise a U.S diplomat on cross-border litigation over the noise of a shrieking 5 year-old ‘talking’. I’m not sure I made a favorable impression.” 

“Don’t feel too badly about it,” Bridget reassured him. “I just read this article about David Cameron saying he’s always getting important calls from heads of state when he’s got the kids in the back of the car, and he’s had to tell them to shut up while he had the Israeli prime minister on the line.” Mark winced but said nothing. “Mark, you didn’t. . . did you?” 

“I did.” 

“I’m sure it was fine,” Bridget soothed. “I mean, she’s a mum. I expect that happened to her loads of times when she was first lady.” 

Mark brushed a hand across his eyes. “I suppose so.” 

“Well,” said Bridget, “it’s late there, and you sound really tired. I’d better let you go. I’ll call again tomorrow to catch the children. Tell them I love them.” 

“I will.” 

“And I love you too, obviously.” 

“Obviously.” 

“Sweet dreams,” she murmured, blowing him a kiss before ending the call. 

Mark sat still for several minutes, chin in his hands. His gaze settled on the collection of photographs hanging above his desk—one of him with Bridget on their wedding day and one each of her cradling Billy and Mabel on the day she’d first brought them home from hospital. Leaning back in his chair, Mark continued to contemplate the pictures, remembering a time when these walls had held nothing—no personal touches, not the slightest indication that his life and home comprised anything more than the work that dominated his world. Now, of course, his family formed the center of that world, and everything else had shifted to make room. Smiling again, he stood and stretched, switching off the light and heading upstairs. He paused on the way to his room to look in on the children, neither of whom appeared to have stirred, and with a feeling of drowsy contentment, he slipped into bed and fell gratefully to sleep. 

* * *

The following day, being Saturday, presented Mark with the challenge of juggling work and children in a precarious balancing act. Ideally, he’d have liked to take off work for the entire duration of Bridget’s absence, but the world’s problems, as he was constantly being reminded, didn’t solve themselves. He had, however, managed to arrange his schedule to keep him at home as much as possible, and despite the dizzying prospect of single-handedly balancing meetings and court appearances with school runs and homework, he appreciated the opportunity to spend a bit more uninterrupted time with his children. He’d begun to set plans in motion for arranging the decoration of Bridget’s office—a task rendered easier by the fact that he had, unbeknown to her, been developing the idea for some time and waiting for the right moment to implement it. In a spark of inspiration (or madness, depending on the outcome) he’d decided to enlist the children’s help in hanging the wallpaper he’d selected—a soft, pink rose pattern that reminded him, the instant he’d seen it, of the night early in his relationship with Bridget when he’d tried to surprise her by filling his bedroom with white tulips without considering that the lack of color contrast, given the white color scheme of the room itself, created an effect of less romance than camouflage. Bridget had eventually pointed this out, though at the time, the discovery of his housekeeper’s son and a live rabbit in his bed overshadowed the importance of discussing interior decorating problems. 

Directly after breakfast, Billy wandered off to start work on his own secret contribution to the decorating project while Mark turned his attention to a pressing UN report that had sat neglected on his desk for several days, hoping to get through it quickly enough to devote the remainder of the day to hanging the wallpaper, which needed to be completed before he took delivery of the furniture he’d ordered. As he mentally worked through his to-do list, a voice in the back of his mind that sounded rather like Bridget’s whispered, ‘What could possibly go wrong?’ 

Fortunately, Mabel was contentedly absorbed with her Sylvanian bunnies while Mark worked. He’d just skimmed the first few pages when the phone rang. Signaling Mabel to remain quiet, he reached to answer it.

“Darcy.” 

“Mark, hello, dear. I hope it’s not a bad time. I know how terribly busy you are.” 

Mark closed his eyes and took several calming breaths before replying. “Pam, hello. No, of course it’s not a bad time. What can I do for you?” 

“Well, dear, I just thought I’d check in, you know—see how you’re coping with the children.” 

“We’re getting on tolerably well,” said Mark. 

“Oh, really? Well, I’m delighted to hear it. I know they can be rather. . . challenging.” Mark suppressed a sigh of frustration, but before he could respond to his mother-in-law’s thinly veiled criticism of his and Bridget’s parenting, she continued, “If you need an extra pair of hands, I could always--” 

Mabel’s voice drowned out pam’s remaining words as she began to sing, “I’ve learned a song that gets on everybody’s nerves.” 

Mark shot her a disapproving look. “That’s a lovely offer, Pam, and I really--” 

“I’ve learned a song that gets on everybody’s nerves,” chirped Mabel. 

“I do appreciate it--” 

“I’ve learned a song that gets on everybody’s nerves, and this is how it goes.” 

“Mabel,” Mark whispered, “that’s quite enough.” 

“But I haven’t finished my song!” she whined. 

“Really,” Pam admonished. “Can’t anyone teach those children manners?” 

“I’m sorry. Listen, was there something else you wanted?” Mark asked patiently. 

“Oh, no, dear. Not particularly. Have you spoken to Bridget?” 

“I have, yes. She’s fine—really enjoying herself, apparently.” 

“It’s very exciting, isn’t it?” gushed Pam. “Imagine! The Academy Awards! Although, if I’m being honest, I’m not so sure it was wise—leaving you like that with the children for an entire week, and you being so terribly busy. I don’t know—in my day, of course, things were different.” 

“Yes, well, with all due respect,” said Mark, “there didn’t seem to be any harm in you deciding to launch your own television career a few years ago; this is a wonderful opportunity for Bridget.” 

“Well, that was quite a different thing, dear. I’m in the winter of my years, and I have no parental responsibilities, and I needed something of my own and, you know. . .” 

Mark suddenly recalled his conversation with Bridget the night before her departure in which she’d voiced her hesitation about leaving. “Right, but as you say, things are different now. I think--” Mark hesitated, then continued, “I think it would mean quite a lot to Bridget if you could be proud of her.” 

For perhaps the first time in his memory, his mother-in-law fell silent. Finally, having digested his comment, she murmured, “Of course I’m proud of her. Goodness, why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Tell her that,” Mark said gently. Then, realizing that Mabel had gone suspiciously quiet, he added, “Listen, if there really is nothing else, I should be going.” 

“Oh, yes, yes, all right then, dear. You take care, now.” 

Mark ended the call and glanced around for his daughter. Mabel, having thankfully grown bored of singing, had wandered over to the corner bookshelf that held a myriad of selections ranging from family photo albums to gossip magazines. With her fairytale imagination and Disney princess obsession, Mabel had often found delight in gazing at pictures of her parents’ wedding, and Mark guessed that studying the detail of Bridget’s bridal gown would captivate her for long enough to allow him to finish reading his report. 

He’d just reached the end of a page when Mabel exclaimed, “Daddy, who’s dis?” Shifting his gaze from his reading to Mabel, Mark noticed a vaguely familiar volume in her hands that he identified as one of several older photo albums that Pam Jones and his own mother had thrust on him and Bridget upon their marriage. He’d never gone through them himself, and Bridget had never found time to sort through their contents, but he thought they might have contained pictures from their respective childhoods. 

“I don’t know,” he said, laying aside his papers. “come, bring it over here, and let’s have a look.” Mabel trotted across the room and climbed up onto the sofa beside him, pointing to the picture she’d been studying. Mark stared at it for a moment, torn between shock and amusement, and considered how best to reply. Before he could formulate his answer, however, Mabel pointed again to the picture. “What happened to her clothes?” Mark closed his eyes and uttered a silent prayer for wisdom. “She looks a bit like me, but I don’t remember doing dat.” She chewed her lower lip, thinking, then said, “Did Mummy look like me before she was a gwon-up? Is dat Mummy?” 

Mark released a resigned sigh. “Yes.” 

“Why did she take all her clothes off?” inquired Mabel. 

“I honestly have no idea.” 

“So is dis what Grannie Pam meant when she said you knew Mummy since she was wunning wound with no clothes on?” 

Mark winced. “Your grandmother probably shouldn’t have told you that, but yes.” 

“So dat was a long time ago?” 

“Yes,” said Mark. “Your mum was very little—not quite as old as you are now.” 

Mabel looked up at her father, blue eyes wide and inquisitive. “Did you like Mummy even den?” 

Mark glanced down at the picture, a reminiscent smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You know,” he said, kissing the top of Mabel’s head, “I think I did.” 

* * *

After a quick lunch, Mark and the children gathered upstairs, the tools for their project neatly arranged in the center of the room in order of when each would be required. 

“Now,” Mark began, “this is a very tricky job, and we want to make it perfect for your mum, so I need you both to listen carefully to my instructions.” 

Billy looked up at his father, a slight crease between his brows. “Dad, have you ever done this before? I mean, no offense or anything, but do you know what you’re doing?” 

“Don’t you worry about that,” Mark replied. “It’s just a matter of following a precise number of steps.” 

“So in other words,” said Billy, “you don’t know what you’re doing.” 

“I really don’t, but it’s hardly rocket science. Now, the first step is sizing the wall.” 

“I’ll get de tape measure,” Mabel offered, making to hurry from the room. 

Mark laughed. “No, sweetheart, we’re not literally measuring it.” The sizing process, which involved applying an exceptionally slimy substance to prime the wall, seemed easy enough until it came to clambering up and down the ladder. In a fit of self-sufficiency, Mark decided to entrust this part of the process to no one but himself, leaving the children to monitor his progress around the room and check for missed spots. Though still relatively fit thanks to playing squash once a week, his shoulders had already begun to ache not halfway across the room. 

"Remind me again why we’re doing this," he called down as he balanced at the top of the ladder. 

"Because we want to do something special for Mum, because we love her," Billy called back. 

"Right, yes, I knew there was a reason. Next time let’s just make her a nice dinner." 

The work continued with Billy meticulously following Mark’s directions and Mabel getting thoroughly overexcited when it came time to apply the adhesive and hang the paper, with the result that more glue wound up on her than on the wall. As they worked, she kept up a steady stream of chatter and questions. 

“Daddy, why do we need gwavity?” 

“that’s easy,” said Billy. “Gravity keeps us in place on the ground. Otherwise we’d just float around in the air.” 

“But wouldn’t dat be fun? Den we could fly.” 

“you get into enough mischief with both feet on the ground, thank you,” said Mark. 

Undaunted, Mabel continued with her line of inquiry. “What makes de twees gwow?” This was followed by questions about where the sun went at night, what made the sky blue, and why wind was invisible. Her curiosity deepened with every question until Mark, trying to ignore the pressure of the headache building behind his eyes, wondered for perhaps the millionth time why no one had ever mentioned that the qualifications for parenthood involved degrees in Physics and Existential Philosophy. At long last, the three of them stood back to admire their handywork. 

“You’re worried about that crooked bit in the corner there, aren’t you,” Billy commented, following Mark’s gaze. “Maybe we can just put Mum’s book case in that corner; no one will know the difference, and Mum wouldn’t care about it, really. She doesn’t get fussed about that sort of thing.” Reflecting on Bridget’s method of ‘tidying up’ in general, which consisted primarily of shoving the mess under the sofa, Mark reluctantly nodded. 

“Daddy, I’m hungwy.” 

“Me too,” piped up Billy. 

Mark rubbed at the kink in the back of his neck. “Well, that makes three of us, then.” 

“Can we have pizza?” asked Billy. 

“Yes, why not, but,” he added, eyeing both children and in particular the clump of glue promising to dry stubbornly in Mabel’s hair, “let’s get washed first. Come on. Baths, both of you.” He rolled his shoulders, working the stiffness out of his muscles. “Christ, I’m exhausted,” he said absently, trying to stifle a yawn. 

“Daddy!” Half way to the door, Mabel paused and turned round, planting her hands on her hips and scowling. “You said a swear word.” 

“I did. You’re right.” Mark manufactured an expression of remorse. 

“No swearing in front of de childwen,” Mabel scolded, shaking a finger in his direction. “You can’t have any pizza.” 

“Dear me,” said Mark, endeavoring to keep from laughing. “That’s a heavy sentence, indeed. Is there any way I can change your mind?” 

A broad smile stretched across Mabel’s face. “Catch me!” she squealed, whizzing off down the hallway toward her room with her father in hot pursuit. With a whoop of delight, Billy joined in the chase, shooting ahead of Mark to catch up with his sister. Reaching the bedroom, Mark pretended to search fruitlessly for several minutes until finally turning his attention to the obvious rustle of movement behind the curtain. 

“I wonder,” he murmured, “where could Billy and Mabel have got to?” At the sound of his voice, both children sprang out from behind the curtain, Mabel flinging herself into his arms. Billy meanwhile leapt onto him from behind, and all three of them tumbled onto the bed in a confused tangle of limbs. Surprisingly unbothered by the fact that they were all still smeared with wallpaper paste, Mark pulled both children into a tight hug. 

“We got you, Daddy!” Mabel declared. 

“You did,” he agreed, kissing the crown of her head. 

“I miss Mummy dough,” she whispered, snuggling closer to him. 

”So do I,” Mark murmured, “but she’ll be home again before you know it, and think how pleased she’ll be when she sees the surprise we’ve got ready for her.” He stood, cradling Mabel against his hip. “Let’s get cleaned up, and then what about that pizza?” 

* * *

A sliver of moonlight filtered in through the curtains, illuminating Bridget’s eyes as she lay curled in the crook of Mark’s arm, gazing fondly up at him. He brushed a strand of hair from her face before lowering his head to kiss her. 

“Darling Bridget,” he murmured, lovingly running a hand along the curve of her hip, “how I’ve missed you.” For answer, she parted her lips for him, inviting him to deepen the kiss, but even as he strained her closer, a sudden jolt broke them apart, and the next moment, Mark found himself alone in bed, rain lashing the windows and fingers of lightning stabbing the darkness. Blinking against the blue-white light, he sat up and scrubbed a hand over his face as the noise that had awakened him sounded again. 

“Daddy!” Mabel was tapping at the door. Mark peeled back the covers and slid from bed; the moment he opened the door, his little girl flung herself into his arms. 

“Mabel, darling, what’s wrong?” 

“Daddy, I’m scared!” 

“Sh, sweetheart, it’s only a thunder storm. It will pass.” 

Unconvinced, Mabel tightened her hold and hid her face against his shoulder as another flash of lightning lit the room. “It’s like someting’s twying to get in,” she sniffled as the windows gave an ominous rattle. 

“Nothing’s going to get in,” murmured Mark, pulling her closer and gently rubbing her back. 

“But it sounds like de house is going to come down.” 

“It’s not. I promise. Come. Why don’t you stay with me for a bit?” Mark switched on the lights and pulled back the covers, tucking Mabel in and climbing in beside her. Mabel shivered and cuddled up to his chest. 

“Can you tell me de pwincess stowy?” 

Mark smiled and brushed her curls back to kiss her forehead. “Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess; her name was Princess Mabel, and she lived in a lovely, pink castle that looked just like an iced cake, and every day she dined on a magnificent feast of frosted cupcakes and chocolate buttons.” Before he could continue, another tap at the door interrupted him, and Billy poked his head in. 

“Dad, is Mabel okay?” 

“She’s fine. She’s right here. I’ve got her with me. You might as well join the party.” Billy grinned and climbed onto the end of the bed beside his sister. “Look at that,” said Mark, pressing another kiss to Mabel’s forehead. “There’s nothing to be afraid of—not with your brother on the job.” 

Billy nodded. “It’s actually important if you’re scared sometimes,” he explained, “because that’s what teaches you when you need to be brave. Right, Dad?” 

Mark ruffled his son’s hair. “Well said, Superman.” A large clap of thunder rattled the windows, causing Mabel to snuggle closer against Mark’s side. 

“Daddy, would it help if we sing about our favowite things?” 

“I’ll tell you what,” said Mark, glancing at the clock. “I have an even better idea.” It was nearly midnight in London, making it about mid-afternoon for Bridget. “Let’s call your mum.” 

“On de facetime?” asked Mabel. 

“Yes.” Mark took his iPad from the bedside table, and both children moved in closer as the call connected. 

“Well, isn’t this lovely,” said Bridget, her smiling image lighting the screen. 

“Hi, Mummy!” exclaimed Mabel, waving at the camera. 

“hello, sweetie.” Bridget waved back and blew Mabel a kiss. “Don’t you all look cozy. What are you doing up so late? Are you having a pajama party without me?” 

“It’s thundewing,” Mabel explained with another little shiver. 

“I know that’s scary,” said Bridget sympathetically, “but you’ve got your dad and your brother there.” 

“hey, Mum.” Billy gave Bridget a tiny wave. “How’s California?” 

“It’s really lovely. I can’t wait to tell you all about it when I get home.” 

“Mummy,” Mabel chimed in again, “can you sing the favowite things song?” 

“I suppose so, but you three will have to be my backup singers.” 

“Um, no, I really don’t think--” Mark began, but his feeble protest was drowned out as Bridget took up the first verse. The performance certainly wasn’t up to Broadway musical standards, and Mabel decided to change the words, inserting chocolate pudding and Sylvanian bunnies into the lyrics, but by the end of the recital, the four of them were laughing, all fear of the elements forgotten. 

“I miss you all so much,” said Bridget once she’d managed to catch her breath. 

“And we miss you,” murmured Mark as Mabel crawled into his lap. 

“But we’re really, really proud of you, Mum,” said Billy, “and we love you.” 

“I love you too, sweetie.” 

“And me?” piped up Mabel. 

“Of course, darling.” 

“And Daddy?” 

“Well,” Bridget appeared to consider the question. “I suppose so, yes. That seems fair.” 

“Daddy, can we tell Mummy about de supwise?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, child,” said Mark, catching Billy’s eye and trying not to laugh. 

“You know,” whispered Mabel. “De supwise we--” Before she could complete the sentence, Billy clapped a hand over her mouth. 

“don’t pay any attention to her, Mum,” he said as Mabel squirmed in his grasp. 

Bridget pouted. “Oh, so there isn’t a surprise then?” 

“I can’t tell you,” said Billy. “If I did, I’d have to kill you.” Mabel broke free from her brother’s hold and stuck her tongue out at him. 

“That’s enough now, you two,” Mark interjected sternly. “Let’s say goodnight to your mother.” Good-night kisses were exchanged and the children shepherded off to bed. Alone again, Mark settled down between the sheets and reached for his phone. 

“Well hello there, stranger,” Bridget greeted him. “I thought I’d be hearing from you again. What’s up? Everything okay?” 

“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to have you to myself for a bit.” 

“I see. Very sneaky of you, Mr Darcy.” 

“Well,” Mark countered, “I didn’t expect our earlier conversation to turn into a Von Trappe family sing-along.” 

Bridget laughed. “You enjoyed it.” 

“It distracted Mabel from the thunderstorm,” he admitted, “so I suppose it served its purpose.” 

“And it was fun,” Bridget coaxed. Mark’s lips twitched reluctantly. “Really, though, how’s everything going?” 

“We’ve been surviving, although your mother called me this morning to check in. She doesn’t have any faith in my single parenting skills, apparently.” 

“You know, it’s odd, but she called me today too. I mean, generally there wouldn’t be anything odd about that; the odd thing is when I don’t hear from her, but it wasn’t the call itself that was odd. It was the conversation we had.” 

“Oh?” Mark hoped his voice sounded casual. 

“She told me I’ve worked very hard to get to where I am, and I should enjoy my success. She also told me to be a lady and not flirt too much with ‘all those actor fellows,’ but that part was a bit of a relief, actually. I’d started to think she’d been seized by the body snatchers or something. It was just so odd when she didn’t—well, she didn’t exactly tell me I shouldn’t come on this trip, and I know she’s proud of me, really, but she’d been going on about how it didn’t seem right for me to leave you with the children.” 

“I wondered about that, actually,” said Mark. “You seemed so hesitant, and then when I spoke to your mother this morning, she made a similar comment to me, and I thought perhaps she might have said something, inadvertently of course, to make you feel guilty about taking the assignment.” 

“I don’t think she meant to,” said Bridget. “I’m sure she really does think it’s great, what I’m doing. It’s just hard for her to try to imagine sometimes how I manage to make it all work because that balancing act isn’t something she ever had to do, or had the choice to do, really.” 

“Exactly, and I suspect she’s worried about the children.” 

“Well, to be fair, when I started going out with you, you could hardly locate a glass of wine, let alone fix an entire meal.” 

“Really, Bridget, I think I’ve remedied that problem.” 

“You have,” she agreed. “Now you can find the kitchen without a floor plan.” 

“Very funny,” he grumbled. 

“You know you love me.” 

Mark’s expression relaxed into a smile. “I do, for reasons that utterly defy explanation, and speaking of which,” he added, “Mabel was asking me earlier about how we first met each other.” 

“Oh God. You don’t mean the turkey curry buffet?” 

“No, go back a bit further.” 

“No, not. . .” 

“The paddling pool,” he finished, and he went on to explain Mabel’s discovery of the photo album that had prompted their conversation. 

“You know, I’ve always been curious about something,” Bridget said when he’d finished. “Did you really remember me that far back?” 

“Vividly,” he replied. 

“You did? Really?” 

“You’ll forgive me for pointing this out, love, but it’s quite a difficult sort of thing to forget.” 

“I suppose that’s true,” agreed Bridget. “Only when we met that night, at the turkey curry buffet, you said you didn’t.” 

“Well. . .” Mark hesitated. 

“Well what?” 

“It was just, we hadn’t seen each other in years, and then there you were, and I didn’t exactly think it an appropriate moment to admit that my only solid memory of you was, um. . .” 

“A bit pervy?” Bridget suggested. 

“Right.” 

“Why did you remember that—I mean, apart from the fact that I took all my clothes off in front of loads of people?” 

Mark chuckled. “I don’t know, really, except that, well, I suppose I thought you were rather amazing, even then. I mean, there I was, this stiff little miniature gentleman, and you were just there, carefree and unencumbered, doing and saying whatever felt natural. It was a breath of fresh air. You know I’ve always loved that about you.” 

“Wow,” Bridget murmured. “That’s so sweet, and speaking of sweet,” she added coquettishly, “what’s this about a surprise?” 

“Never you mind, darling,” Mark replied. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” Then, glancing at the clock, he added, “I know you’re very busy and important; I should let you go. I love you.” 

“Love you too,” whispered Bridget. Somewhat reluctantly Mark ended the call and slid back into bed, but the hint of a smile still played across his face as he drifted off to sleep. 

* * *

The following week passed surprisingly without incident—everyone settling into their respective routines. The children went off to school, Mark to work, and evening rituals of homework, housework, and bedtime stories served up their usual portions of angst and entertainment. When not reading to Mabel or testing Billy on his spelling, Mark became entangled in a convoluted web of emails between the school mum’s that Bridget had tasked him with monitoring in her absence. Amidst chatter about lost shoes, collecting donations for teachers’ gifts, and squabbles about who’d agreed to bring the hummus to the next sports’ day, he began to think he had an easier time of it trying to extricate condemned revolutionaries from extradition orders. At last, Saturday arrived; Bridget would return home late that night, and Mark and the children planned to unveil her surprise on Sunday morning after breakfast. Mark had other items on the welcome-home agenda, but they required special arrangements. Having ensured both children were occupied—Billy with a comic book and Mabel with a film, he slipped into is study to make a call.

“Darce,” came Daniel’s greeting, his voice gruff from sleep. “Bit early, mate.” Glancing at his watch, Mark realized it was barely 11.00. 

“I’m sorry. I ought to have realized. Bad time? It is Saturday morning after all. If I’m interrupting something, I can ring back.” He heard Daniel light a cigarette before replying. 

“As a matter of fact, you’ve caught me alone. I ended the night early.” 

“Struck out, then?” Mark quipped. 

“Piss off,” muttered Daniel. “Just because you’ve got the same beautiful woman warming your bed every night until death do you part, you needn’t be so smug about it.” 

“It’s really a convenient arrangement, you know, Cleaver. I’ve been telling you for years. There are quite a few benefits to being married.” 

“You mean apart from sex?” 

“Apart from sex. Not that the sex isn’t spectacular.” 

“Smug bastard,” grumbled Daniel. “You know I like more variety in my diet, and anyway, if I settled down, I couldn’t be on permeant godfather baby-sitting duty standby. Incidentally, I’m guessing that’s why you’re calling. Bridget comes home from California tonight, doesn’t she?” 

“Yes.” 

“hmm.” Daniel took a drag on his cigarette. “She’s been gone what, a little over a week? I expect you’re gagging for it.” 

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Mark replied coolly. 

“Right. What did you have in mind?” 

“Well, she doesn’t get in until late tonight, so I thought tomorrow we could just have a nice day—breakfast with the children and then--” 

“And then you’d like me to get them out of the way for a few hours,” Daniel concluded. 

“God, is it that obvious?” 

“Transparently.” 

“It wouldn’t be for very long,” Mark promised hastily. “I’m sure Bridget’s going to want to spend time with them, but it just occurred to me that, well. . .” 

“That she might appreciate a reunion shag? It’s an idea,” Daniel agreed, “and probably not a bad one.” 

“You’ll take them,, then?” 

“Delighted to serve. Nothing like a Sunday afternoon with my godchildren to make me feel saintly and virtuous. Just what one needs after a weekend of adult entertainment. Shall I call for them around noon?” 

“That would do fine, I think,” Mark agreed. “I really do appreciate this, Daniel.” 

“I’m only doing it for Bridget. It’s got nothing to do with you.” 

Mark grinned. “No, of course not. I had no such delusions.” 

“Oh, and speaking of Bridget, I suppose there’s no chance you could make room for a third in the welcoming party?” 

“Piss off, cleaver.” 

Daniel chuckled. “See you tomorrow, Darce. Give my godfatherly love to the children.” 

Still grinning, Mark put down the phone and left the study to check on Mabel. He frowned when he noticed she’d abandoned her film. 

“Mabel?” Receiving no answer, he went to the foot of the stairs and called again, and when he still received no reply, hurried up to search for her. 

“Billy,” he said, peering into his son’s room, “do you know where your sister’s got to?” 

Billy glanced up from his comic and shrugged. “Nope.” 

“In here, Daddy!” Mabel called from the direction of the room they’d been fitting up for Bridget. With a deep, calming breath, Mark turned his footsteps down the hall. 

“Mabel,” he said sternly as he put his head round the door, “I thought I told you not to play in here. We’ve just worked very hard to fix the room up for Mummy and. . .” The rest of his sentence sputtered and died as he caught sight of Mabel’s mischief. Mabel had, for reasons best known to herself, crawled her way round the room, and where there had once been clean, cream-colored wallpaper between the patterns of vines and roses there was now a collection of crudely-drawn pink hearts. 

“I’m nearly finished,” she announced, completing one last heart with a flourish and jumping up to run to his side. Mark closed his eyes, counted to five, opened them, and discovered that the vision of pink hadn’t dissolved. “Isn’t it nice, Daddy?” Mabel beamed up at him for a moment, but when he still said nothing, her smile faltered. “I thought Mummy would like it,” she whispered, lowering her eyes. Mark let his gaze travel around the room at the destruction; he thought of Bridget, wondering how she might react. As he did, a series of images flashed through his mind: messes shoved behind sofas; the ridiculous, gigantic hole in the wall of her flat that took over a year to get sorted; a squiffily-trimmed Christmas tree. 

His expression softening, he crouched in front of Mabel and wrapped her in a hug. “It’s perfect, darling. Mummy’s going to love it.” 

Mabel’s eyes brightened. “Do you think so?” 

“Yes,” he whispered, kissing the top of her head, “and she’ll think of you every time she looks at it.” 

* * *

As morning sunlight crept through a chink in the curtains, Mark stirred sleepily and, without opening his eyes, curled his arm more securely around Bridget’s waist. With a sigh, he rested his cheek on the top of her head, allowing the warm weight of her against his side and her slow, steady breathing to lull him back into a doze. He returned to full consciousness when he felt Bridget stir beneath his arm. 

“Hi there,” she whispered, a drowsy smile teasing the corners of her mouth. 

“Hi,” he said, pressing a kiss to her brow. “Happy Mother’s Day.” He lifted a hand to brush the hair back from her face, his fingertips stroking the curve of her cheek. “God, I’ve missed you. I’m really glad you went, but I’m even more glad to have you back again.” 

“Me too,” she yawned, snuggling against his chest. “Oof, I’m still pretty jetlagged though.” 

“Well, why don’t you just stay here and relax for a bit? I’ll go down and help the children with breakfast and call you when everything’s ready. I want you fully rested.” 

Bridget arched a brow. “May I ask?” 

“You may not.” Mark pecked her on the lips before slipping from bed. “You’ll find out soon enough. Just relax.” 

Twenty minutes later, the bedroom door burst open again, and Mabel flung herself onto the bed and into Bridget’s arms. “Happy Moder’s Day, Mummy!” 

Laughing, Bridget caught her up in a squeeze and kissed the top of her head. “Thank you so much, darling. I’m so glad to be home; I’ve missed you so.” 

“We made you bweakfast, Mummy!” Mabel announced, beaming up at her. Billy entered then, grinning and bearing a plate containing a chocolate croissant, which he set on Bridget’s lap before climbing onto the bed beside her and giving her a hug. 

“Thank you, sweetie,” murmured Bridget, wrapping him in her arms as well. Finally, Mark appeared; he bore a tray containing a cup of coffee, a perfect omelet, and a vase with a single pink rose. 

“What, did we run out of beetroot cubes and stuffed olives?” she asked, laughing. 

“No.” Mark leaned in to kiss her. “I just know how you feel about my omelets.” 

“Was it really cool getting to meet lots of film stars, Mum?” asked Billy. 

“It was, actually.” 

“What’s it like to talk to them? I mean, you get to ask them all sorts of questions and stuff.” 

“Oh, well. . .” Bridget blushed and lowered her eyes; Mark made a note to inquire further when time permitted. “The thing is, up close, when you actually get to talk to them, they’re just people like the rest of us—really lovely people, actually.” 

“I think I’d like to be famous,” Billy mused. “I could have lots of money and drive a fancy car, and then I could buy you a house in California so sometimes you could stay there and see Auntie Sharon more often.” Bridget responded by scooping him into a hug and catching his face between her hands to pepper him with kisses. “Aahhh! Mum! Nooo!” Billy giggled and squirmed, and never one to miss out on fun, Mabel wiggled herself into the fray. Glancing up in the act of tickling her, Bridget noticed Mark perched on the edge of the bed, the hint of a smile playing around his mouth as he observed the scene. Bridget bent and whispered something in Mabel’s ear; Mabel’s eyes brightened, and without warning, all three launched themselves at Mark, knocking him backward onto the bed amidst squeals of triumph and unintelligible laughter. Somehow, likely with credit to Billy, the many-armed hug morphed into a pillow-fight. Bridget’s delighted laughter nearly equaled Mabel’s, and a rush of love and joy flooded Mark’s heart at the sound. Undercover of the confusion, he pulled her toward him, caught her face in his hands, and kissed her, playfully nipping her lower lip before pulling back. When the pair of them drew apart, they found the room had gone quiet, and Billy was frowning at his parents, apparently torn between awe and revulsion. 

“Why do grownups do that? Isn’t it kind of gross?” 

Bridget laughed and reached over to ruffle his hair. “You might change your mind someday when you’re older. Right, Mark?” 

Mark forced himself to meet her eyes and tried to keep from laughing. “Yes, well—that is. . . oh God. Um. . . perhaps we should discuss this later.” He cleared his throat. “Bridget,” he said pointedly, “how’s Sharon?” 

Bridget’s eyes still held a teasing glint as she replied. “Oh, great, really great. We had a lovely visit, actually.” 

“did you go swimming?” asked Mabel. 

“We did.” 

“Did you smoke like a naughty schoolgirl?” Billy added, fixing his mother with a piercing look he’d copied from Mark. 

“Well. . .” Bridget wiggled her painted toenails. “It was my holiday. One must be allowed to be a little naughty on one’s holiday.” 

Mark frowned. “I don’t know,” he said, giving his son a wink. “We could let you off with a caution this time, I suppose. What do you think, Billy?” 

Billy shrugged. “Well, I suppose so.” 

“I wanna give Mummy de supwise now!” Mabel exclaimed, bouncing on the bed. 

“Ah, yes, right. I’d almost forgotten.” Turning to Bridget, Mark took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “We’ve got something very special to show you.” Bridget followed him down the hall, the children scurrying ahead and stopping in front of the closed door on which Billy had hung a hand-made sign that read ‘Headquarters of the Top International Journalist’. 

Before Mark could speak, Mabel rushed forward and flung the door wide. “Supwise, Mummy!” Bridget’s hands flew to her mouth as she stood in the doorway. Her eyes widened with increasing delight as she took in the room—the rose-patterned wallpaper, the stuffed sofa with soft, plump cushions, and the desk facing the window that overlooked the garden. In the center of the desk sat a bouquet of pink roses; Bridget immediately rushed over and buried her face in the flowers, but not before Mark glimpsed the tears shining in her eyes. 

“Better than the white tulips, then?” he inquired, leaning against the door and observing her with a smile. 

“Yes, yes, god yes,” she sniffled, wiping her eyes and gazing back at her family. “You did all this for me? Why?” 

“Well,” said Mark, “every top journalist needs a creative workspace, don’t you agree?” 

“And look, Mummy!” Mabel tugged on Bridget’s hand and pointed to the hearts with which she’d embellished the wallpaper. “Do you like it?” 

“Oh, sweetie!” Setting down the roses, Bridget crouched and swept Mabel up in her arms. “It’s perfect! I absolutely love it! I love all of you!” 

“Right then.” Mark cleared his throat and beckoned to the children. “You two had best get ready before Uncle Daniel arrives.” Once Billy and Mabel had scurried off, Mark crossed the room and reached into the bouquet of roses. 

“Here,” he said gently, extracting a note from between the stems and handing it to Bridget. 

Tears welling in her eyes again, Bridget unfolded it and began to read.

> Happy Mother’s Day, my darling Bridget. I hope you enjoy your gift; may it always serve to remind you how much warmth and love you fill our home with. You teach me every day that to truly love is to give one’s heart completely and without reservation. You are still the light of my dreary old life. I love you with all my heart. Mark.

Smiling through her tears, Bridget lowered the note and slid wordlessly into Mark’s embrace, raising herself on tiptoe to kiss him. Losing himself in the kiss, he let his hands slide down the curve of her hips to cup her backside and lowered his head to nuzzle her neck. 

“Mark,” Bridget breathed, her protest muffled against his lips, “the children.” With a groan, Mark tore his mouth away from hers just as Mabel’s voice punctured the warm cocoon that had enveloped them. 

“Mummy!” she called. “I can’t find my purple leggings!” 

Reluctantly, Bridget unwound herself from the embrace. “We’ll have to pick this up later,” she whispered, tipping her head up to give Mark a teasing peck on the lips. 

He smiled and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. “I’m holding you to that.” 

“And I’d better put some clothes on,” she added. “It probably wouldn’t be a good idea if I’m still in my nighty when Daniel turns up, although come to think of it, he probably wouldn’t mind.” 

“No, but I bloody well would,” Mark growled, pulling her roughly to him again and trailing his lips along the hollow of her throat; she squealed and tried only half-heartedly to extricate herself, and after gently patting her bottom, he released her and nudged her toward the door. 

Once the children had been seen safely off with Daniel, Mark ducked into his study to send a quick email, and when he returned upstairs, he found Bridget standing in her newly-decorated room, a smile playing at her lips as she gazed through the window. 

“I think you’ve gone into a trance,” he murmured as he came to stand behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“I was just thinking,” she said, a soft, wistful look in her blue eyes as she continued to stare out at the garden. 

“About?” 

“About the first time you asked me for a date, right here in this house, in the garden, at your parents’ ruby wedding.” 

“Ah, yes.” Mark chuckled. “Just after I rescued you from my rather. . . overly enthusiastic cousin.” 

“Didn’t you preface asking me to have dinner with you by telling me you’d threatened to go to the Sunday People and tell them your mother had abused you with a bicycle pump as a child if she mentioned my name to you one more time?” 

“Of all my witty, charming, romantic, irresistible pick-up lines, you insist on remembering that one.” 

Bridget giggled. “It’s pretty hard to forget, you have to admit.” 

“I can’t disagree with you.” 

“Poor Simon, though,” she added, still laughing. “He couldn’t help himself. I was an alluring, attractive, older woman, shrouded in mystique and worldly wisdom, and he was quite a good dancer, actually.” 

“Even if his. . . pencil case got in the way,” said Mark. 

“yes, well, sort of thing that could happen to anyone, really.” 

“Yes, and speaking of pencil cases. . .” Mark gently but pointedly shifted his weight, pressing himself between Bridget’s legs. Bending to trail his lips over the hollow of her throat, he uttered a muffled groan as her fingertips performed a tantalizing dance along his inner thigh. 

“Well,” she purred, “we’re in a bit of a quandary here.” 

Mark arched a brow. “Are we? Would you care to explain?” 

“Well, you led me to understand that I’m supposed to use this room to get work done, and I know you have strict rules about working before playing.” She punctuated her sentence by leaning in to nibble his earlobe. 

“Ordinarily that’s perfectly true, but I also think it’s important that creative energy be permitted to flow freely, so we’re going to get very, very creative.” 

“You planned this whole thing, didn’t you?” For answer, Mark scooped her up and crossed the room to lay her down on the sofa. 

“Innocent until proven guilty,” he said huskily, yanking her sweater over her head and bending to lay his mouth on her breast, teasing the nipple with his teeth and relishing the shiver of pleasure that shot through him as her breath caught on a moan. When he raised his head briefly, she pushed her hair out of her face and fluttered her lashes. 

“You can’t seduce me with your sexy, barrister talk.” 

“Can’t I, though?” Propping himself on one elbow, he let his gaze rove over her body, lingering appreciatively on every curve, every pucker, every point on which his hands and lips had etched the imprint of his love. He danced his fingers across her stomach; slid his palm along the soft curve of her hip; then slowly, tenderly looked into her eyes. A pink tinge colored her cheeks, and her gaze slid dreamily out of focus. 

“So what was that about not being seduced?” he asked, one brow raised. Bridget managed only a faint sigh by way of response, one hand pressed against her heart. Mark smiled. “Hmm, yes, that’s what I thought.” Then he lowered his head and locked his mouth on hers, effectively ending further coherent conversation. 

* * *

Some time later, wound together in a lazy tangle of limns, Mark reveled in the sleepy silence, listening to the gentle rise and fall of Bridget’s breathing beside him and toying idly with strands of her hair fanning across his shoulder. As he leaned down to press a soft kiss to her temple, her eyes opened, and she smiled up at him. 

“I really, really missed you,” he whispered. 

Bridget tilted her head up to brush her lips against his. “You made that pretty obvious.” With a yawn, she began to disentangle herself. “We should probably get dressed. It wouldn’t due for us to be lying around all naked and shag-drunk when the kids come home.” 

Mark hooked an arm around her and pulled her back to his side. “Daniel has strict orders to call and warn us first. For now, I have you all to myself.” 

“You know, if this becomes a regular thing—me going out to California, I mean—you should really come with me next time. It could be fun.” 

“Yes, actually, that reminds me,” said Mark, recalling their earlier conversation with the children that morning. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” 

“About my trip?” He nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I have to ask, miss celebrities-are-just-normal-people-like-us, what happened with Colin Firth?” 

“What makes you—why would you think—how did you know?” 

“Because I saw the way you blushed when Billy asked you what it was like talking with famous people, and I can think of only two people who ever have that effect on you, and you’ve just had sex with one of them.” Bridget lowered her eyes. “Bridget, come on. What did you do?” 

“Nothing,” she mumbled. 

“Bridget?” 

“No, really! It wasn’t anything; it’s just, you’ll laugh if I tell you.” 

“If I promise not to laugh, will you tell me?” 

She narrowed her eyes. “You will.” 

“I won’t.” Mark laid a hand over his heart. “I swear.” 

“You mean it?” 

“Gentleman’s honor. Aside from anything else, it’s terribly bad manners to laugh at a woman one’s just had spectacular sex with. We learned that at Eton.” 

“Daniel must have been off sick that day,” muttered Bridget. 

“We’re evading the issue,” said Mark, determinately arranging his features into an expression of polite curiosity. 

“Okay, so, I was at this really glamourous after-party. I’d just got there, and Shaz was texting me all evening asking how it was going. I ducked into the ladies’ to just send her a reply, and when I got out and was walking down the corridor, I realized I’d forgotten to check my hair. There was this enormous, Victorian-style mirror in the corridor, so I just checked my reflection and put up my hand to make a little adjustment, but I’d forgotten I was still holding my phone, and it just flew straight out of my hand and got stuck in one of those ridiculous, fancy potted palms. I never really understood the point of trees indoors. It’s unnatural. People should just go outside and breathe fresh air if they want to see trees, like in a William Wordsworth poem or something.” 

Determinately still not laughing, Mark nodded. “Yes, but the incongruity of outdoor foliage as indoor decorative display aside, what does this have to do with Colin Firth?” 

“I didn’t mean for it to happen or anything,” Bridget continued hastily. “But I went to retrieve my phone and was just rummaging around, trying to find it, and I sort of, um. . .” 

“Yes?” 

“Got stuck.” 

“I think,” said Mark, “that I know how this is going to end, but I love the way you’re telling it; there’s a natural build to these kinds of stories.” 

Bridget frowned. “You promised not to laugh.” 

"I did," Mark agreed. “And I think I’ve honored that promise with near-Herculean restraint.” 

“You’re mocking me,” she pouted. 

“Which is an entirely different thing. I promised not to laugh; if your interpretation of that promise extended to other forms of affectionate teasing, you should have made yourself clearer.”

Bridget rolled her eyes. “What’s the point arguing with you?” 

"None whatsoever. Now, if you wouldn’t mind, please continue with your narrative. The suspense is killing me." 

“Fine,” she huffed, the twitch at the corners of her mouth belying her irritation. “My hair got tangled in the branches,” she continued , “and so there I was, stuck in a fucking tree, practically arsse over tits, trying to get myself out, and suddenly this very familiar, gentlemanly voice asked if I needed help.” 

“Mr Darcy to the rescue, I presume,” Mark commented. 

“He was really sweet about it, actually. I was terribly embarrassed because I must have looked like a complete idiot, but he just handed me my phone and asked if I was all right and said it was the sort of thing that could happen to anyone, and then. . .” She paused, her cheeks turning pink again. “Then he said—he said he remembered me, you know, from the Independent.” 

“Well,” said Mark, “that doesn’t surprise me, really. You’re quite memorable.” 

“But I didn’t expect it. I thanked him and introduced myself, but when I said he probably wouldn’t remember me, he said he did because that interview is probably one of his most famous, and people still ask him about it.” A tentative smile trembled on her lips, and her eyes began to sparkle. “He said it was lots of fun because it was authentic—because I was asking him things I really wanted to know and not just the scripted sorts of questions everyone always asked him, and well, that was it, really. I thought he’d remember me because I was rubbish, honestly, if anything, but he said I was really sweet and genuine and he’d really enjoyed himself. I hope I thanked him properly for rescuing me from the palm tree,” she added. 

“You could always send him a Christmas card as a show of gratitude,” Mark suggested, at which Bridget winced. “Or not, on second thought. In your profession it’s probably best not to give celebrities grounds for a restraining order.” 

They lay quietly together for several minutes, Bridget nestled in the crook of Mark’s arm, her head against his chest. She let her gaze travel lazily around the room, taking in its detail, until she began to giggle.

“Do you know what the wallpaper reminds me of a bit?” 

“The tulips,” replied Mark, grinning down at her. “That was the idea; I realized I never recreated the moment.” 

“I thought at the time maybe you were color-blind or something.” 

“Which is why I thought I’d go for a bit more contrast this time around.” 

“Were you furious over Mabel’s drawings?” 

“No, I thought it was a brilliant example of, um, post-modern, freestyle artwork.” 

Bridget arched a brow. “Seriously?” 

“Well, that, and they wouldn’t come off—not that I didn’t give it my best effort. I mightn’t have liked it, truthfully, but when I looked at it, there was a kind of vibrance in the spontaneity.” 

“Like Mabel,” Bridget murmured, her eyes glowing. 

“Well, yes, but I was thinking of you, actually.” Mark laced his fingers through her hair, stroking his thumb across the back of her neck. “You know, when I met you—when our mothers kept trying to fix us up, I was intimidated by the very idea of you. You seemed to live in this wild, swirling, chaotic vortex of energy, and I couldn’t imagine how I might fit.” 

“I couldn’t either, at first,” said Bridget, “but that’s the way life works; there isn’t really a strict set of rules, which I know might sound weird coming from me with all my theories on self-help literature as religion, but all that really taught me was that there’s the way people tell you your life is supposed to be and the way it actually turns out. Then there’s this huge gap in between those ideas, and you have to spend time in that gap, just figuring things out, because that’s how you make choices about your life so it turns out the way you want it to.” 

Mark nodded. Taking Bridget’s hand in his, he raised it and brushed his lips against her knuckles. “I’ve spent quite a bit of time this past week reflecting on what my life was like before you came into it—precise and orderly with neat, hospital corners, with everything in its proper place, and now, with you and the children, it’s just chaos bursting at the seams.” 

“I never imagined you ever getting used to that,” Bridget commented. 

“That’s the funny thing though,” said Mark. “As perfect as my life appeared, sometimes, when I was alone, I’d find myself wandering the house at night and feeling as if I were walking through a stage set. I couldn’t understand why, and then you rocketed through and turned everything upside-down, and I realized I wasn’t really living; I was just existing.” He traced his thumb in circles across the back of her hand as he spoke. “I’ve always admired the way you embrace chaos. You don’t just let life drag you along its twists and turns; you always make a choice to jump—to let the momentum move you forward, and that’s why you always land on your feet, because you’re willing to accept that wherever you land is where you’re meant to be, even if it isn’t where you thought you’d wind up.” 

“Looking back on it now, I think having Billy was what really showed me that,” said Bridget, glancing down at their linked hands. “I had a choice, but so did you. I knew I wanted Billy, but I also had to accept that you might not, and I had to accept that I’d have to live with your choice as well as mine. You could have turned away, but you didn’t.” 

“I nearly did,” said Mark. “Don’t think I’ll ever allow myself to forget that, but when I look at you—when I look at our children—I find it hard to dwell on what I might have forfeited when every day I’m reminded of what I’ve gained.” 

“Hmm,” murmured Bridget, nuzzling his neck, “how can I be sure this isn’t just the spectacular sex talking?” 

“And what if it is?” Mark asked. 

“Well then, we’ll just have to have a lot more of it.” 

Mark slid a hand down her back as he kissed her. “You ask a great deal of me,” he said solemnly, “but I think I can learn to live with that.” 

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. In the UK calendar, Mother's Day, or Mothering Sunday, is generally observed on the fourth Sunday of Lent. Depending when Easter falls, Mothering Sunday can fall as early as mid-March. Since for the last few years, the Academy Awards have tended to be held on the first Sunday of March, even with an Early Easter, it's unlikely that Mothering Sunday would have fallen as early as I've set it here, so I realize I've taken some creative license.  
> 2\. In 2012, Hilary Clinton would have been the U.S Secretary of State, so if Mark ever found himself consulting with the State Department for any reason, I suppose that conversation might have happened. Again, creative license.  
> 3\. The white tulips reference appears in the original columns, though in both column and book universe Bridget is startled by a naked boy and a live rabbit in Mark's bed. In the columns, he's identified as the son of Mark's first wife; in EOR book universe, he's identified as the son of Mark's housekeeper...because you were all obviously going to lose sleep over that. You're welcome.  
> 4\. The cousin Simon referred to is Simon Dalrymple, the awkward youth who tries to dance with Bridget and Malcolm and Elaine's ruby wedding in the first book. He's never definitively identified as a cousin, but we do know from the seating arrangements at dinner that one of Mark's aunt's is present, so Simon could conceivably be Malcolm and Elaine's nephew. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated, and please follow me on Twitter @eggsbenni221.


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